


For Everything A Reason

by Accidental_Ducky



Category: American Horror Story, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Amorality, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Stiles Stilinski, Eichen | Echo House, F/M, M/M, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Void Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: "This house will kill all of you." And yeah, that's definitely a growl. Stiles turns just short of his room, hand on the doorknob as he looks Grumpy McEyebrows over. Tall, but not quite as tall as Stiles, broad through the… Well, everything. He could be on the cover of Teen Vogue or something, looking like he just walked off the runway. Which is just unfair. Dead people shouldn't look this hot.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	1. Haunted by Rotten Desire

Stiles isn't fond of LA, it's too noisy and there never seems to be any real darkness once night sweeps over. He can't see the stars as well here, not like he could back in Beacon Hills. But the move is necessary; his mother needs skilled medical care, his father needs the pay raise that comes with his new position on the LAPD, and Stiles…. Well, what Stiles needs isn't the most important thing right now.

They moved in the middle of Junior year, leaving behind the house Stiles had grown up in in favor of a small mansion smack dab in the center of Los Angeles. It's beautiful; architecture from the early 1920's with bricks that almost look pink in the sunlight and stained-glass windows made to look like butterfly wings. Stiles looks around while the realtor shows off light fixtures and a luxurious kitchen, drawn to a door almost hidden by the stairs. It's old and disused, the wood swollen enough to stick in the frame and coming loose with an anguished cry when Stiles jerks on the brass knob as hard as he can.

"What the hell was that," John asks, poking his head out of the kitchen in time to see his son stumbling back a few steps. "Stiles, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Pops. The door was stuck, is all." John gives him a weary look, blue eyes trailing from the top of Stiles' head to his worn sneakers and back again. Eventually John gives a nod and disappears back into the kitchen to admire the pasta arm or tile grout or whatever it is they'd showcase on Property Brothers.

Stiles turns his attention to the doorway, the yawning blackness making something in his chest unwind just a fraction. Sending one last glance over the curve of his shoulder to make sure his father isn't watching him, Stiles heads down the old stairs and into the heart of the house.

The basement is made up of stone walls and a cement floor, separated into three rooms that branch off from the main floor of it, two on the left and one on the right that holds a rusted-out bathtub. It's damp from spring showers and Stiles can smell mildew coming from the bathtub room. Still, it's quiet down here. Cold. There's a flash of movement on his left, the rustle of clothing and a hissed _fucking shut up already_. Stiles follows the noise into the room and takes in the metal shelving that holds up glass jars filled with formaldehyde and animal parts, an old medical table with moldering leather straps and one wheel missing. There's another quiet whisper, a glimpse of green eyes before the blackness swallows it up.

Stiles nods a little, making his way out of the room and back up the stairs in time for his parents and the realtor to come out of the kitchen. His mother's gaze is distant, lost somewhere in her own head, but John Stilinski has a grim set to his mouth like he doesn't know what to do.

"Full disclosure," the plucky older woman says. "There were three murders here just last year. It's why the house is so cheap." And there it is, the other shoe dropping smack down on John's head. But Stiles is smiling, a sharp curve to his lips and the decision is already made as the thing in his chest unfurls with a pleased sound.

"We'll take it."

Stiles is very good at pretending there aren't ghosts in his new house. He'll make a sandwich for himself after he gets home from school and ignore the silverware drawer as it slowly opens by itself (invisible fingers that twitch and mischievous giggles cut short by a hiss), he'll find little smiley faces drawn randomly throughout the house and think of Kira when she actually tried to cheer him up before giving that up for a lost cause and retreating back to her comics and to Isaac.

In fact, he pretty much has playing Dumb Teenager down pat until he gets out of the shower one morning and catches sight of a dude standing in the far corner. The guy is buff and missing his shirt, showing off a six pack and a scowl that makes Stiles simultaneously want to climb him like a tree and stay away. The dead guy is Stiles' type is what he's trying to get across here.

"You need to leave," Grumpy McEyebrows says, almost growling.

"You need to learn what a closed bathroom door means," Stiles shoots back. He wraps a towel loosely around his hips and goes down the hall to his bedroom. Grumpy McEyebrows follows at his heels like an angry Shih Tzu that's acting bigger than it really is.

"This house will kill all of you." And yeah, that's definitely a growl. Stiles turns just short of his room, hand on the doorknob as he looks Grumpy McEyebrows over. Tall, but not quite as tall as Stiles, broad through the… Well, everything. He could be on the cover of Teen Vogue or something, looking like he just walked off the runway. Which is just unfair. Dead people shouldn't look this hot. Still, the thing inside Stiles doesn't like the growly tone the guy's using and there's a moment where Stiles wants to tear into the guy's throat with his teeth. Instead of resorting to violence, Stiles steps right into the guy's personal bubble and takes a deep whiff, smelling old smoke and a spicy sort of something that means this guy used to sprout fur on the full moon.

Fucking Werewolves.

"Listen to me, Fido, I'm not going anywhere. You keep going on with the pseudo-Alpha tone and I'll turn your ghosty ass inside out and toss you in the washer. Got it?" Grumpy McEyebrows's scowl is truly impressive, his brows making a V so deep that it shouldn't be possible. He also looks ready to keep at it with the growled threats and, nope, Stiles is having none of that shit.

He lets the thing in his chest unfurl completely, his breath coming out in a pale vapor as the temperature around him drops into the negatives, frost crackling over the door frame and his eyes glowing the vibrant yellow-green of a firefly. Grumpy McEyebrows takes a quick step back, eyes flashing bright blue for an instant before he flickers out of existence.

"Tell your friends," Stiles calls after him. "I'm not taking any of their shit either."

Grumpy McEyebrows remains absent for about a month, still scowling when he appears in front of the TV. Stiles doesn't notice him at first, not with the usual senses, but then there's a voice in his head hissing for him to look up and _see_. Grumpy has a shirt on today, a white Henley with gray smudges of ash in the creases of it, drifting to the floor like snow.

"Fire's a hell of a way to go out." And maybe that's an insensitive way to start a conversation, but Stiles has never been accused of having tact.

"So is possession." He actually cracks a smile at that, a cold sharp thing like the edge of a knife. "Is that why you refuse to leave? Because that _thing_ inside you likes it here?" Stiles sets his calculus homework on the coffee table and leans back on the couch, making himself comfortable as he stares. Grumpy shifts just the slightest bit, one little inch with his right foot. "This place will kill you," he says again.

"Not me." Stiles can feel the truth of that vibrating deep in his bones, a basic fact that he's known since he was a child. The sky is blue, the sun is yellow, and Stiles Stilinski will outlast everyone. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. "It didn't kill you either. Not really." Grumpy ducks his head and a hand comes up to pull at ink black hair, like the pain will make him wake up from whatever nightmare he's stuck in.

"My uncle's sister-in-law had that pleasure." Green eyes peer up at him past a dark fringe of lashes, hard as granite. "She was crazy, too. Just like you are." And then he's gone, not even the ash left behind.

"I'm not the crazy one here," he calls to the empty spaces of the house.

"Uh, Stiles?" And, of course, _that's_ the moment his dad decides to come home. Just his luck, right? John is standing in the archway of the living room, equal parts confused and concerned. Why wouldn't that be his reaction to hearing his son talk to imaginary people? Dementia is genetic and doesn't care about age.

"Well, I'm _not_."

"Are you feeling okay? I know that moving is stressful and your mom—"

"I'm fine, Pops. Just venting a little, is all." The man's shoulders visibly relax, slouching into something like exhaustion. "You go on and take a shower. I'll make dinner tonight."

Stiles is really good at research, like, hella good at it. He can spend all day in the library if he really focuses and that's exactly what he does one Saturday when his mother's screaming reaches a pitch that would send a dog into fits. He pops an Adderall and sets to work, printing page after page until he's got a decent history on his new house.

It's late when he goes home again, his mom asleep and his father lost in a bottle at the kitchen table. Stiles takes his research with him to the basement, settling down in the old bathtub with his legs hooked on the lip.

"Are you mentally disturbed?" This voice doesn't belong to Grumpy McEyebrows, it's smooth as honey and holding a low purr. Stiles glances up from the bundle of papers, taking in the new Werewolf; short and buff, dark blond hair slicked off his face and a shadow of stubble covering his cheeks.

"Are you the Alpha?" The man's eyes glow ruby red in confirmation and Stiles tilts his head to the side. "Was it fire that got you, too?"

"A wolfsbane bullet to the head."

"Ouch. That's harsh, man." The Alpha hums his answer, sitting down on the floor across from the tub. Stiles returns his attention to his research, flicking through the pages until he finds what he's looking for. It's a family picture, two men and a teenager, all of them smiling at the camera. _Peter and Christopher Hale,_ the caption reads. _Married on August 18th 2012_. _Nephew, Derek Hale, present_.

Stiles folds the paper into an airplane and lets it soar over to Peter, the nose of it crumpling against his thigh. Peter unfolds it and studies the page without expression, then crushes it into a ball and throws it across the room.

"Still sensitive?"

"Something like that, yes." Peter stands again, poking his finger against Stiles' chest like the teen had pushed his mother into traffic. "You and your family need to get out of here before it's too late. Nobody leaves this house outside of a body bag."

"Huff and puff all you want, big bad. You don't scare me." Peter's lip curls up to reveal a hint of fang and then he's gone.

The day had started out so normal, laughter and jokes and the occasional tantrum. Peter and Chris covered the sitting room mural with tasteful wallpaper while Derek grills hamburgers in the backyard. Then Kate Argent shows up with a gas can, a packet of matches, and a pistol.

The day ends with scorched earth and begging and bullet holes.

They've been living in the house for two months when the caretaker arrives in a whirl of strawberry blonde hair and sweet perfume. She's beautiful like Stiles has always imagined a goddess to look, her smile cold and cutting when she thinks no one's watching her. Her skin is smooth and creamy with no blemishes to be found, green eyes shadowed like a pond hidden deep in the woods.

She's also dead.

"I can work every day aside from Saturdays," she says as John leads her up to Claudia's room. "Thanksgiving on, Christmas and Halloween off." Stiles arches a brow and her plump lips curl into a smile. It's not hard as stone, but it's not exactly warm either, somewhere comfortably in the middle that doesn't set off too many alarm bells. "My boyfriend and I have a standing arrangement on Halloween."

"Did you know the veil is thinnest on Halloween," Stiles asks conversationally. To anyone familiar with Stiles, this is just a normal jump in conversation that his ADHD has latched onto. He'd been obsessed with the idea of Halloween as a kid and did all sorts of research on it, so his father has grown very used to hearing about the subject. Lydia, on the other hand, seems a little taken aback. "The dead can walk freely that day."

"You know, I think I have heard that before. I wonder if the dead like to party." Her smile is absolutely devilish now, but it softens as they come to a stop outside Claudia's room. The door is locked and the windows nailed shut for everyone's protection, Claudia's gotten violent lately and she'd tried to drown Stiles as he took a bath last week. "Is it alright if I introduce myself to her?"

"Yeah," John says. His hand isn't shaking when he pulls the key out of his pocket, but there's a fine tremor there when he turns the knob. He goes inside first, an unspoken agreement having Stiles coming in last so that Lydia is sandwiched between them in case Claudia lashes out. "Claudia? Honey, are you awake?"

"Wide awake," Claudia murmurs. She's curled up in the rocking chair with her back to them, gaze fixed on the backyard. John shuffles closer to her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder and unaware of the way his wedding ring flashes in the sunlight. "Who's with you?"

"Stiles and a nice young lady that's going to help you out." He motions them to come forward and they do with only minor hesitation. Lydia's heels click against the wood floor, steady as the ticking of a clock, and then she's kneeling so that Claudia has the high ground.

"Hi, Mrs. Stilinski," she greets, the genuine warmth in her voice nearly flooring Stiles. "My name's Lydia." Claudia snorts her disbelief, shaking her head just hard enough that some of her hair falls over her forehead. Her hair used to be the same rich brown as Stiles', but now there are streaks of gray in it.

"I thought you were supposed to be young." The comment doesn't seem to bother Lydia, but it _does_ bother Stiles. He squints a little, feeling the darkness in his chest squirm, and then he's seeing what his mother sees. The luxurious hair shortens and turns a tad more brittle, wrinkles starting to line the face of a woman in her early forties. She's still beautiful, still dead, she's just older. When he blinks, she's young again and her laughter fills the room like thousands of colorful balloons.

 _Interesting_.

_Lydia Martin was last seen on July 10, 2005 in southern California. She's been reported missing by her boyfriend, Jackson Whittemore, and he's willing to pay up to five thousand dollars for any information as to her whereabouts. She's five-foot-three with long red hair, green eyes and fair skin._

Stiles slaps the newspaper clipping down on the kitchen table and Lydia rolls her eyes at the description.

"He's an idiot, but he tries."

Claudia Stilinski is bed bound two weeks after Lydia begins caring for her; she doesn't talk, she doesn't lash out, and she doesn't eat. The doctor puts a feeding tube in and pats himself on the back.

Stiles wakes to a hand roughly shaking his shoulder, finding Derek leaning over him with panic darkening his eyes. He's confused at first, wants to roll over and go back to sleep, but then he hears whispering that doesn't belong to any of the house's ghosts. There's someone in the house.

He sits up slowly, Derek moving so Stiles can get out of bed and slide his feet into his slippers. He creeps over to his bedroom door, ear pressed against it as he listens. The conversation is faint, coming from the first floor, and he catches something about an old serial killer who had a thing about nurses.

"How many," he mouths. Derek holds up three fingers. Stiles nods sharply and opens the door enough to slip out into the dark hall. His mom is sound asleep down the hall and his dad is pulling a night shift, so it's up to Stiles and the ghosts to defend their homestead. He pauses at that thought, halfway to the stairs, and decides that he shouldn't watch John Wayne movies before bed.

"Get them to the basement." Derek's voice is quiet and his breath is cold against Stiles' ear, the smell of smoke hanging thickly between them. Stiles nods again, sucking in a deep breath before sprinting down the stairs. His slippers make him slide wildly over the floor, but they catch and hold traction on the long rug leading down the hall from the sitting room and it helps him stay in the lead as the intruders chase after him.

He wrenches the basement door open and slides down the railing with only a vague fear of it collapsing under his weight. He stumbles when he reaches the basement floor, but Derek keeps him upright and hauls him into the room with the bathtub. Footsteps thunder after him and then three figures are barreling into the room. Two women and a man, all armed with pocket knives and one truly hideous ashtray.

"Haven't you read about Goldilocks," Peter asks. He steps out of the deep shadows, eyes glowing and canines sharp. "We're a whole lot meaner than those bears."

"I thought the dad was working," one woman hisses.

"He is," the man snaps.

"We're not the Sheriff's family," Lydia says. She's come up behind the trio, blocking the only way out of the room. Her smile is sharper than any knife, blood red as she bares white teeth. "But this is our house and we don't take kindly to intruders." Other ghosts filter into the room, surrounding the intruders in a tight circle. Stiles has never seen most of the new arrivals; a young couple with a son around Stiles' age, Peter's husband with burning blue eyes and the back half of his skull missing. The intruders are blubbering now, praying for forgiveness, but Stiles decides they haven't earned any such thing.

"If you kill them in the house, will they be stuck," he asks.

"Anywhere on the property." He nods and steps forward, peering at the intruders over Derek's shoulder. "Do you want to do the honors?" Lydia's holding a dropped switchblade, the sharp edge reflecting the bloody smear of her lips. Stiles takes it from her and moves past the ghosts, stopping less than a foot from the man and women.

"Did you really think sneaking into _murder house_ would end well for you? A horrible decision on your part, guys. Truly, ridiculously stupid. I mean, have you done any kind of research beyond memorizing my dad's schedule? Christ on a pogo stick." He moves his arm even as he continues his rant, slashing three throats from ear to ear with a deadly precision. "You guys wanna throw them into the neighbor's yard? I don't feel like running into them again."

Peter and Chris throw the two women over their shoulders while the other man and Derek drag the third intruder out. Stiles is back upstairs and sound asleep by the time the bodies are thrown over the fence into the neighbor's yard. The next morning, he acts surprised when his dad tells him what Mrs. Heavensbee found on top of her begonias.

_The McCall family perished together in an apparent murder-suicide Tuesday morning in their home on Westchester Pl. Rafael McCall, famed detective responsible for bringing the infamous Alpha Pack to justice, was found in a basement room with a gunshot wound to the back. His wife, Melissa McCall (nee Delgado), a prominent nurse, was found in a similar state not too far away. Mrs. McCall had shot herself under her chin. Their son, Scott McCall, was found drowned in an upstairs bath._

Stiles cuts out the section and glues it onto a black page in his scrapbook. Each page covers one section of history for his home, how each resident passed away and what they had been. The McCalls were human, but they were murdered by Deucalion's pack no matter what the clipping states.

"Stiles, dinner's ready!"

He puts the scrapbook in a locked desk drawer and joins his father at the dinner table.

Four months after the break-in is Halloween, so Derek, Stiles and Lydia head to the beach. They smoke weed and drink pilfered scotch and generally dick around. When it gets fully dark and the stars come out, they make a bonfire and settle down on an old Star Wars comforter. Derek's in the middle, acting as a pillow for the other two as they stargaze.

"Proud evening star in thy glory afar and dearer thy beam shall be," Stiles murmurs. His mother had loved that poem, she'd recite it to him whenever he was afraid of the dark. Now she barely remembers her name on most days. He hates seeing her so frail when she'd been vivacious and bold all his life. "I think I'm going to kill my mom."

"We'll help," Derek says.

"That's what family's for," Lydia adds. That makes Stiles' thoughts freeze and who knew that a word so simple as _family_ could do what all his meds have never accomplished. He lifts his head slowly, though it never leaves Derek's chest, to look the both of them in the eye. "Did you think we hung out with you because of a lack of options?" Stiles nods and the motion lacks its usual sharpness. "God, you're an idiot."

"An absolute dumbass." But Derek's arm tightens over Stiles' shoulder blades and Lydia's fingers brush over his cheek. For the first time in his life, Stiles feels a little less cold.

OPERATOR: 911, what is your emergency?

CALLER: It's my mom. I- I think she's having a heart attack.

OPERATOR: Okay, stay calm, sir. Can you tell me where you are?

CALLER: My house. Hang on.

CALLER: 1120 Westchester Place. Please, we need an ambulance!

OPERATOR: I've got an ambulance dispatched, they'll be there in fifteen minutes. Can you tell me your mother's name?

CALLER: Claudia Stilinski. I'm Stiles.

OPERATOR: It's going to be okay, Stiles. Just keep talking to me.

The official cause of death is heart attack, the real cause of death is an air embolism that the coroner hadn't bothered to look for. Time of death is listed as four o'clock in the evening of November 1, 2013. They bury her two days later on a Monday back home in Beacon Hills.

There are grieving community members and Stiles shakes so many hands that his fingers are starting to cramp. He remembers snippets of the service, the heavy scent of flowers and homemade casseroles, and the way Kira had sobbed against Isaac's shoulder like it was her mom that was lying in the casket. By the time they get back to Los Angeles, Stiles is ready to be alone.

His dad grabs a bottle of booze and collapses on the couch, so Stiles goes down into the basement. If nothing else, he figures Derek will be a better pillow than the one waiting for him upstairs. Waiting for him in the room with the medical table, wearing a white dress with yellow flowers printed across it, is his mom. She's not confused or violent or sick, she's just _Mom_. The same woman who had put Band-Aids on skinned knees and recited poetry when he got scared and gave the best hugs.

Claudia smiles when she notices him, opening her arms to wrap him up in a hug that smells of roses. That cold thing inside him writhes, sensing something similar in Claudia. They're alike, both carrying the darkness inside them like all of Claudia's ancestors have before them. Stiles buries his face in her hair and breathes deep and he lets all his pent-up sorrow pour out of him in a body-shaking sob.

"It's alright now, Mischief," Claudia promises as she lowers them both to the floor.

_The Los Angeles community was rocked this morning with the news of Sheriff John Stilinski's tragic death. As reader's may know, his wife died of a heart attack last year after a lengthy battle with frontotemporal dementia. John Stilinski was found this morning after a welfare check. First responders say cause of death was aspiration and that he was likely asleep when it happened. John Stilinski is remembered by his son, Mieczysław "Stiles" Stilinski._

Stiles is right in the end, the house doesn't kill him. He spends his days in the basement, tangled up with Lydia and Derek. On Halloween, he takes them out to the beach and they stay there until daybreak forces them back like a rubber band stretched too far. At night, they curl up with Derek in the middle, all of them touching like puppies.

Claudia laughs and John rolls his eyes, but they're both so happy that Stiles is finally smiling again. Still, there's a darkness in him that doesn't stay complacent for long. Stiles comes home once a month or so with bloody clothes and ice in his gaze. On those nights, Lydia runs him a bath and Derek recites that old poem about starlight.

"It's more than a compulsion," he says, voice a low rumble that reverberates through Stiles' chest and into Lydia's back. The tub upstairs is big enough for two, but not for three, so Derek has made a nest on the floor with his head shoved under Stiles' hand. "This dark thing isn't just psychosis either. It's something more."

"My mom used to tell me stories when I was little," Derek says. "All kinds of stories about unconventional packs, more than just human betas or all Alphas. Apparently our grandparents passed down a story about a fabled pack led by a creature that wasn't human or Were."

"Tell me more."

"The creature's name was Void and its pack is made up of the dead. This pack is supposed to herald the end of the world—a Banshee's scream, an Alpha's roar, and the snap of a fox's tail. If all those things happen in unison, the world will know only chaos, pain, and strife." Stiles hums softly, carding his fingers through Derek's short hair. _Chaos, pain, and strife_. He likes the sound of that.

The apocalypse happens on a Saturday morning after Stiles has had his coffee and a bowl of Froot Loops. Houses and familiar landmarks are razed to the ground as ash and hellfire rain down from the sky, lakes turn to blood, locusts decimate crops, and whole swathes of people are executed in the streets. One house, located at 1120 Westchester Place in Los Angeles, is left in pristine condition.

Stiles considers it a job well done.


	2. For Every Ending

Lydia Martin is strong and independent and she's going to write a best-seller even if it kills her. She's got the perfect material, too. Infamous serial killer, the one responsible for skinning and beheading women, has been recently incarcerated in Eichen House. Said serial killer is due to arrive at said asylum within the hour and Lydia's going to be there when it happens.

She'd been determined not to let the bitch of a head nun distract her, to not letting the unsanitary conditions pull her focus away from her prize. She'd been so involved in writing her book about the Void killer that she never noticed the new shrink spinning a web around her until it was too late. Now she's as stuck in this place as everyone else.

"It's for your own good," her mother whispered, brushing strands of hair off Lydia's face. "You're not well, dear. You need help." Natalie left after that with a sway of her hips and a hankie under her nose to block out the smell. Lydia doesn't think she'll ever forget that sight, not for as long as she lives.

( _i'll use it in my book. the supposedly devoted mother who turned her back on her only daughter_ )

The first month in Eichen House is as far from uneventful as you could possibly get. Void arrives and consequently starts a fight in the day room, his new best friend, a man named Derek, joins the fight and jumps on the back of one of the other men until the bitch nun breaks it up with the threat of violence, and a new psychiatrist arrives to ruffle all kinds of feathers.

Lydia stays in the background of it all, close enough to watch the action and far enough away to avoid being dragged into it. She writes on pieces of paper she's scavenged and hides them in a worn-out Bible so she doesn't get punished for them. She's seen what happens to rebels here, a vicious caning or electroshock that leaves her fellow patients drooling messes.

"I'm getting out of here," she vows one night, staring up at the stars past her barred window.

"Good luck with that, kid," says the guard as he walks down the hall. He's tall and handsome, blond hair slicked back and partially hidden beneath his hat. Out of all the guards and orderlies that infest Eichen House, Jordan Parrish is the most compassionate. She'll leave him out of her exposé.

Month two finds Lydia and Derek sitting at a table playing Scrabble using bits of paper and a board made out of cardboard. It's surprisingly pleasant in spite of the way they're being watched by Void. He stays off to the side, pretending to read while fidgeting nervously in an armchair. Every now and then, he'll glance their way or over at the record player.

"Is he going to break the record," she asks, nodding at Void when Derek raises a questioning brow.

"I wish he would." The record plays the same song over and over again, some French monstrosity that interrupts any pleasant dreams Lydia has at night. "He'd get caned for it, though. Sister Blake is a sucker for a good caning."

"Is it one of those unspoken rules? No touching the music?" Derek grunts, not much for conversation despite his obvious intelligence. The man just played _entomology_ and she doubts the others here can even spell their own names. "What are some other rules I should know? Aside from not writing." Derek glances away from his letters, brows drawn down in a deep V over spectacularly beautiful eyes.

"Don't cross Sister Blake."

"That seems obvious."

"A lot of newbies don't seem to grasp that." They both look to Void now, still curled up in the armchair with his knees tucked under his chin. He's unnaturally pale, dark bruises under his eyes from a lack of sleep and a purple bruise along one sharp cheekbone from a fight.

"Who did that to his cheek?"

"The resident Nazi." That's not even an exaggeration, Doctor Douglas is German and has made his views crystal clear with the Jewish population in Eichen House. Knowing that he's hit Void makes something seethe in Lydia's belly, a low heat like a teapot coming to a boil, ready to scream. She doesn't though, screaming leads to a caning. Derek cocks his head to the side, an animal-like behavior that strikes her as odd. "That made you mad."

"Void is smaller than Douglas. It's not a fair fight." He nods and makes a considering sound in his throat, eyes flicking to Void and then back to Lydia. Void has given up all pretense of reading, his dark-eyed gaze fixed on them with something like interest. "What?"

"His name is Stiles."

Garrett Douglas is bent over paperwork when Lydia comes into his office. It's overcast and thunder muffles her footsteps as she grabs a scalpel from a black kit on a coffee table. He doesn't even realize he's got company until she's shoving his head against the desk and pressing the scalpel against his carotid.

"What," he starts, but the rest of his question turns into a choked gurgle when she applies more pressure. His blue eyes are wide, fingers gripping the edge of his desk tightly. Lydia likes this sight, someone much bigger than her so afraid of what she might do to him. It's the power rush to end all power rushes.

"You don't ever lay another hand on Stiles," she hisses, so close to him that she can feel his stubble grazing her lips. "I see so much as a scratch on him and I'll cut your throat." He makes another sound, desperate, the sound of cornered prey. She grins in response, carving her initials into his throat below his perfectly stretched collar, and releases him.

Douglas hits the floor with a clatter of fallen papers and a busted pen, the front of his trousers darkening as his bladder relaxes. Lydia's nose wrinkles in disgust and she steps back from the growing puddle of urine.

"You should clean yourself up, Doctor," Stiles says. Much like the thunder had muffled Lydia's approach, it had muffled Stiles' as well. He comes to stand beside her, taking the bloody scalpel to examine it closer. Red stains the blade, deep and rich, a fat drop of it threatening to fall on Stiles' shirt. He licks it clean and tosses it away from him. "Why'd you do that, Lydia?"

"Because I prefer to be the only bully in the place." He smiles at her, cold as ice, and her answering grin is full of fire.

Stiles joins their Scrabble game one day, beating both of them with an ease that Lydia envies. She's used to being the smartest one in the room, but it seems she's got some competition now.

Doctor Peter Hale, uncle of one Derek Hale, is a fucking creep with wandering hands that need to be broken off at the wrists. Instead, Lydia gives him shy smiles and Bambi eyes, twirling her hair around her finger like some idiot in junior high with their first crush. Peter's ego is in need of stroking and Lydia is in need of escape.

Over his shoulder, back at their usual table, Derek and Stiles watch the sickening display with something like curiosity. There's an edge to it, though, jealousy that makes them positively _green_. Lydia smiles a little wider at them and lets Peter think it's all for him. She's never been a damsel in distress, but she's good at playing one.

"Don't you worry your pretty, little head," Peter murmurs, brushing his fingertips over her cheek. "I'll go check on your mother. Maybe I can change her mind."

"That would be wonderful, Doctor. I don't know how I'd ever repay you." They way Peter's eyes trail over her body tells her _exactly_ how he expects her to repay him. She doesn't shiver in disgust or rake her nails down his pretty cheek, but it's a close thing. Instead, she leans into his palm and presses a kiss there that has his eyes lighting up blood red. _Interesting_.

He's called away soon after that, pulling Stiles with him to a private office for their head shrinking sessions. Lydia moves over to Derek, sitting across from him and looking down at the slips of paper that Stiles had abandoned. They don't talk for a long while, just playing Scrabble while that goddamn French song plays on repeat in the background.

"He flashed his eyes and you didn't react," Derek says after their fourth game. He's looking at her over their makeshift board, but Lydia's watching Sister Blake's stairway to Heaven. Another nun is up there today, Sister Reyes stalking around the landing like a predator coming into its own. "Lydia."

"He's not the only supernatural creature in Eichen House."

It's a torrential downpour the night they try to escape. The others are distracted by crashing thunder and The Sign of the Cross, they never notice three people slipping out for various reasons. She doesn't know what excuse Stiles and Derek use to get out of the movie, but Lydia mentions her time of the month and Parrish is more than happy to excuse her.

They head out the secret door hidden in the bakery, the same one Lydia had used to gain access so long ago on a dark night when she still had the aspiration to write that Void article. Now here she is, escaping with two murderers, one of which is Void himself. Ain't life funny?

"Holy shit," Stiles gasps, jerking under the onslaught of rain. It's falling hard and fast from black clouds, stinging where it hits them, needle-sharp. Lydia is already losing feeling in her nose, but she grabs her boys' hands and leads them toward the trees. If they can just get through the woods, a road will be waiting to take them back into Beacon Hills proper. Fifteen miles of slick asphalt and Lydia will be home again.

They're halfway to the road when Lydia draws them both up short, holding them tightly as she looks around. There's something out there, she can feel it humming in her bones, she just doesn't know _what_. Then she sees it, a pale, deformed thing shuffling out of the bushes with blood ringing its mouth. It's covered in lesions, one of its eyes cloudy and blind.

"Oh, holy shit," Stiles says again, taking a step back. "What is that thing?"

"Doesn't matter," Derek says, neon blue eyes squinting past the storm. "There's three more heading right for us." The trio race back the way they'd come, bursting through the door and into the bakery with four creatures hot on their heels. Derek slams the hidden door shut and barricades it with the metal racks that haven't been used in years. "Well, so much for that idea."

"We'll find another one," Lydia says, breathless from the run. "We have to."

"Derek has always been troubled," Peter murmurs against her ear. They're sitting in his office, curled together on the couch with his chest pressed against her back and his arm pillowing her head. They haven't done anything yet, she's convinced him that she's a virgin and she's scared about anything more than cuddling. The repressed housewife ideal that the sixties is crafting is really helping her with this.

"What'd he do? He doesn't seem dangerous." She keeps her voice soft, even congenial. He doesn't realize she wants to break him into pieces and use his intestines as fertilizer.

"He burned the family manse to the ground one night. Everyone was inside for the evening and Derek seemed to just snap." Peter shrugs and the motion brings his hand slightly higher up one of Lydia's thighs. His fingers are warm, unnaturally so, just like every Werewolf she's ever met. "I barely made it out, but no one else did."

"Do you hate him?" Peter hums and Lydia feels it against her back, vibrating through her shoulder blades. She doesn't say so aloud, but he smells of rot and regret. He smells like other harbingers that Lydia's met over the years, but Derek doesn't. Peter smells like ash. She doesn't need to hear his heartbeat to know he's lying about who set that fire and she bets he did it just to get his sister's Alpha spark.

"I hate this new version of him. He's not the same nephew that rode around on my shoulders." And you're not the same Uncle that gave him piggy back rides. She thinks of the night she was admitted, the bare cell and the smell of her mother's perfume.

_(i'll use this in my book, too. the supposedly devoted uncle who burned his family alive)_

The storm has passed and Peter is lying on his couch, dead to the world after Stiles had slipped a tranquilizer in his morning coffee. It gives the trio all the time in the world to snoop through his files. There's only three of them in a locked desk drawer, a half-full bottle of scotch lying on top like a paperweight. The three files have three names written on them in elegant cursive— _Lydia Martin, Derek Hale, Mieczysław Stilinski_.

"He's been studying us," Lydia breathes, flipping through her file. There are psych reports from other doctors, a few old articles she'd written, even photos that she never knew were being taken. There are notes toward the back, a list of character defaults and habits, her schedule throughout the day. "Jesus, he's a stalker."

"Tell me about it," Stiles grumbles. His file is thicker than Lydia's, but not as thick as Derek's. The front half is all clinical; session notes, a few direct quotes, details about all those murdered women. The back half is more like Lydia's file, old psych profiles with photos and his daily schedule both outside and inside the asylum. "He went back all the way to ten years ago and my mom died."

"My grandmother died ten years ago."

"My family burned to death ten years ago," Derek says in his usual quiet rumble. They all share a look, then dig through the files until they find something else they all have in common according to Peter's files. Each of them suffered a traumatic loss as children, each of them comes from single-parent households, each of them has some mental defect. "I think I know why he took on our cases."

"Why," Stiles asks. He looks genuinely curious, raising his brows.

"There's this old story I was told as a kid and I always thought it was bullshit, but now…." He glances over at where Peter is sprawled out across the couch, one hand limply brushing the cold tile floor. "Peter's favorite story to tell was about this pack of the dead that was led by a creature that wasn't human or Were. This pack is supposed to herald the end of the world—a Banshee's scream, an Alpha's roar, and the snap of a fox's tail. If all those things happen in unison, the world will know only chaos, pain, and strife."

"What does that have to do with us?"

"Stiles, you were literally nicknamed the _Void killer_."

"But none of us are dead."

"He burned his pack alive, so I don't think he'd have a problem with killing us, too." Stiles hums and looks at Peter. He still hasn't moved, chest rising and falling steadily in a deep, drugged sleep. "He thinks he'll be able to lead the pack because he's an Alpha."

"Problem is that I'm not actually something supernatural. I'm totally human."

"Maybe he doesn't realize that," Lydia muses. All three of them are watching Peter now, thinking of what he might have planned for them. Lydia's about to suggest they kill him first when Peter makes a sound as though he's about to wake up. The trio puts the files and scotch back where they found it, locking the drawer before retreating from Peter's office.

They don't say anything on their way back to the day room, but they know they're in danger.

Sister Blake is escorted from the premises by Parrish, her head held high and eyes hard as stone. Behind her, Sister Reyes is grinning with vicious triumph. There's something not quite right with that nun, a smell of sulfur clinging to her, but Lydia doesn't pay it much attention.

One night, just as Lydia is settling in, Peter Hale appears in silhouette with a ring of keys and a spare coat that looks about her size. Lydia's been expecting this and she's planned accordingly. She says nothing as he comes into her room, even sits up for him to fit the coat around her shoulders.

"It's a perfect fit," he murmurs approvingly, smoothing the mink fur down. It's a rich, glossy brown that would look better on Stiles, but it's warm and she appreciates fine things. "You're going to be so perfect in my pack."

"You mean when I'm dead," she asks, looking up at him. Peter seems taken aback, but then he's schooling his expression into something hard. He reminds her of the statues in a cemetery, smooth and unchanging despite the weather. Peter Hale should look like this forever.

"I see Derek's been telling stories again."

"It seemed more like a prophecy just begging to be fulfilled." Lydia grins as two shadows slip inside unnoticed, moving on silent feet across the floor. Peter's surprise is a genuine thing when Derek presses a knife under his chin, forcing his head back. "Of course, the prophecy never included _you_."

"Kill me and you will never leave this place," Peter growls. His eyes light up the room with a crimson glow, teeth bared in a threatening snarl that would have scared her a few months ago. Lydia leans forward until her nose brushes his.

"We're not killing you yet, Peter. We still have a need for you." She meets Derek's steady gaze, dipping her head in a slow nod. Derek returns it, he and Stiles manhandling Peter away from the dorms and closer to Peter's office. There's an abandoned cleaning closet in the same hall and Stiles uses Peter's key to open it. "Sit tight. We'll be back in a few days."

Peter lunges at the door, but Stiles is faster and blows a handful of wolfsbane powder into his face. Peter falls backwards to the floor, spluttering and batting his hands at whatever hallucination is haunting him. Lydia shuts the door and locks it with a quiet _click_. The smile she turns on the other two is nothing short of bloodthirsty.

Christmas brings a whole new set of problems to Eichen House. A murderous patient—one Alan Deaton—gets his hands on a pair of scissors and decides it's time for a hunt. Fifteen years ago, he'd come home for Christmas and found his family butchered. It had driven him crazy with a thirst for revenge so he'd donned a Santa costume and did a little butchering of his own. He killed five families before the cops brought him down.

As if Alan wasn't bad enough, Sister Blake had apparently gone insane after losing her job. She broke in the same way the trio had tried to break out and used a straight razor to tear open Parrish's throat before locking herself and Alan Deaton in her office. By the time the orderlies got the door broke down, Alan was starting to bleed out and Sister Blake was unconscious at her old desk.

The next week brought a flurry of movement with it as well, the staff reporting the events that had happened at Christmas until Sister Blake was admitted to Eichen House as Julia Baccari. She's not nearly as scary out of her cassock. She's also a pro at Candyland.

"So, what happened to Doctor Hale," she asks one afternoon. The sky is gray and heavy with snow, a fine powder of it dusting the yard. If Lydia really focuses, she can make out the snaking road that leads back into town.

"He left." Julia snorts and shakes her head, brown hair falling in tangles across her shoulders. She's not trusted with a brush after trying to bludgeon Douglas with it two days ago. Lydia had laughed so hard her ribs ached and Sister Reyes had caned her for it. She still has the welts on her ass to prove it. "What?"

"If he left, then Erica Reyes is possessed by an angel." Lydia's gaze travels from the sky to the nun currently overseeing the installation of a jukebox. Sister Reyes has changed since Lydia's admission, no longer the sweet little thing she had been. She's possessed alright, but not by anything divine. Lydia's certain that Void is hiding behind her ribcage, wrapping dark tendrils around her heart until all goodness has been squeezed out.

"He's somewhere safe." Julia hums, looking down at her hands. The bandages wrapped tightly around her palms are stained red with blood, that and the small slivers of vinyl hiding near the baseboard all the proof anyone needs that Julia's the one that had broken that damn French record.

"Keep him there if you know what's good for you. He's a sick twist."

It's not long before Julia Baccari is taken to a backroom and treated to free electroshock therapy and then dropped off on a loveseat. The burns at her temples are starting to blister, but the orderlies steer clear of giving her any salve for them. Overhead, pacing the landing of the staircase, Sister Reyes watches with eyes that shine a faint gold.

It's snowing in earnest when Lydia, Derek, and Stiles sneak out of their rooms using Peter's stolen keys. The mink coat is warm and soft and Lydia can't wait to see what it'll look like soaked in Peter's blood. He's been in the closet for nearly a month now and he smells like it, sitting in his own filth with his carefully groomed hair hanging around his face in greasy streaks.

"You look like shit," Lydia says. She kneels in front of him, her smile ice cold. "I have to be honest here, Peter. It's good to know that you're not perfectly coiffed all the time." She doesn't touch his hair because it looks filthy, but she does poke one sharp fingernail against his chest and laughs when he tumbles backward. "Give me the knife."

"With pleasure," Stiles purrs. He presses the knife into her hand, dark eyes glinting with excitement as she presses the pilfered blade against Peter's jugular. "You're going to be a good boy for us tonight, Petey. We need your confession." Peter clenches his jaw, but he doesn't fight.

"What confession," he snarls. His eyes are glowing again, bright crimson outlined in moonlight. It's a full moon tomorrow and she wonders what it must feel like to these 'wolves. Do they feel the pull of it in their marrow, deep waves of power ebbing and flowing?

"The confession of those murders you framed me for. You remember, right? You killed my sister-in-law." Allison Argent-McCall had been the last victim, identified by a small strip of skin left on her ankle with a bow and arrow tattooed on it in bright gold. "Now, you can do this in one go and we'll be done with this or you can be stubborn and my friend here will start to cut pieces off." Peter tilts his head back, unaware or uncaring of the way his throat presses against the knife.

"I was right about you, Stiles. You're _Void_ , you're meant for this. You and me and Lydia could take this world so easily. Just _give in_." Stiles sneers down at him, but he doesn't lash out. There's plenty of time for that.

"You weren't right about fuck all." Behind them, hunched over with his brows furrowed in concentration, Derek turns on the tape recorder. It's an awkward thing they'd taken from Peter's office, but it'll get the job done. "Now, why don't you tell us about why you killed Kira Yukimura?"

"She was soft." Peter's voice is a soft rasp now, blue eyes drawn to the middle distance as he remembers. "She had skin like a peach and I wanted it all for myself. It got cold and stiff and stunk of rot, so I moved on to my dentist's secretary. Her name was Jennifer, a pretty little redhead with a kind smile. I killed her because I didn't want anyone else to have her."

"Why are you killing them at all?" Peter's gaze snaps back to Stiles' face and his lips curl away from his teeth, white incisors sharpening.

"Don't you wanna know why I killed little Ally?" What little color Stiles had in his cheeks drains away at the mention of Allison. He'd grown up with her and her husband, childhood friends that ended in a pool of blood and sharp words. "I was watching you for a long time, Stiles. I was watching you and Lydia and Derek because you three have the most potential. I killed Allison to get you here, I burned my family alive to get Derek locked away, and I convinced Lydia's mother that her daughter was a psychotic to ensure she was her at the same time. I've been playing the long game."

"So none of us have a real reason to be here?"

"No." Stiles grins and stands up, helping Lydia up while Derek turns the recorder off and wraps the reel in some wax paper. "What happens now?"

"You're free to go." Lydia tosses the knife aside and walks out of the room, carefully sandwiched between Stiles and Derek on the way out. Peter's still a threat, but now they've got enough proof to get the hell out of here.

_(i'll give this part it's own chapter to exonerate stiles. the fiercely devoted best friend who never turned his back on his family)_

They don't hand the tape over right away, they don't trust anyone in the asylum enough to sneak it out. They don't have to wait long, however. One afternoon as Lydia is coming out of the day room, Sister Reyes plummets to the first floor with a sound like an egg breaking. Her eyes flash a bright yellow, and then she's gone with a flutter of wings and a dark shadow passing over her. Overhead, on the second floor landing, Monsignor Harris crosses himself and walks away.

The place is swarming with police after that and it's easy for Lydia to convince them to listen to the tape. She brings the young cop into Peter's old office and plays it for him, watching with satisfaction as the cop's expression changes from doubt to bewilderment.

"It's always a shock to learn you've caught the wrong man, huh," she asks. "I expect we'll be free to go within the hour?" The cop's jaw is still on the floor and he doesn't seem capable of picking it up, so Lydia takes that as confirmation enough. She pats him on the shoulder and calls another cop in. This one is older, but his reaction is mostly the same when she plays the tape for him.

"I'll go to the judge and get a warrant," he says. "We should have Doctor Hale in custody in a couple of hours. I'll go talk to the Monsignor about releasing you and your friends."

Peter Hale's loft is disturbingly clean, not a speck of dust to be found or a knick-knack out of place. Lydia makes herself comfortable in an armchair, her pistol a comforting weight in her hand. Stiles and Derek are making arrangements in town, getting everything switched over to Derek's name including the newly rebuilt Hale house that Peter had been working on for years.

Peter doesn't look surprised when he comes out of his bedroom to find her, but he _does_ look surprised when the cops pull up outside with their lights and sirens flashing. His gaze cuts to the drawer Lydia had stolen the pistol out of, then back to her. For the first time since she met him, he looks scared.

"They won't execute me, you know," he murmurs, leaning against the cabinet that holds his martini glasses. His hand moves slowly across the polished wood, down toward the drawer. "They'll lock me away in Eichen House for all my crimes. I mean, I'm clearly insane." His lips twitch upward in a smile as he eases the drawer open and reaches inside.

"Are you looking for this, Peter," Lydia asks, holding up the revolver. Peter's smile drops away as real panic hits him. His eyes glow a vicious red and he lunges for her right as the front door splinters under a boot and Lydia pulls the trigger. Peter drops to the plush carpeting, brain matter and blood creating a morbid display for the young cop to find when he comes in.

"What the fuck," he gasps. Lydia stands and presses the revolver into his hand.

"He said he was going to kill me."

Lydia does write her book detailing the year she spent in Eichen House, even managed to get the place locked down and Julia moved to a new institution that actually helps its patients. The book wins a few prizes, gets Lydia enough money to ensure she never has to work again, but she doesn't write another.

Stiles takes over the job as Sheriff of Beacon County after his father retires. Stiles runs his precinct with an iron fist and they never once arrest the wrong person for any crime. In fact, the overall crime rates drop to basically nothing once the rec center is opened to help educate the kids in the poorer parts of town.

Derek Hale uses his family fortune to help damaged kids, donating to charities and helping kids find therapists that aren't off their fucking rocker. He ensures that no one goes through the same trauma he had, he makes a difference in the town and soon no one remembers how they'd all thought he was a mass murderer when he was sixteen.

The three of them all move in together after they leave Eichen House behind them. They eat dinners of home cooked venison and rabbit and salad they grow themselves, they play Scrabble with a real board and tiles, they raise little 'wolves with yellow eyes. There are no raised voices in their house, no spankings or punishments that leave marks on their skin. They spend summer evenings on the back porch and winter evenings in the living room, singing Christmas carols at the tops of their lungs.

They don't take over the world in the end, but they're happy.


End file.
